


The Damned

by Lise, Min Daae (Lise)



Category: Silmarillion
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe, Character Death, Drama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2009-12-13
Updated: 2009-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-04 10:06:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 16,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lise/pseuds/Lise, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lise/pseuds/Min%20Daae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After exile from Nargothrond, in the confrontation with Luthien and Beren, Curufin dies. Celegorm is left to make his own decisions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We Are the Dead

**Author's Note:**

> _I feel that further explanation may be necessary to prevent myself from being lynched._
> 
> _As you may have noticed from a glance at my other Silmverse fanfiction, I'm a bit of a Celegorm fan. The reasons for this are immaterial - what is more important is what I wanted to explore about his relationship to his brothers, in particular Curufin, and to other persons who don't die in the first chapter of this story like some people I could name. Namely, I was curious what impact the murder of one of the brothers apparently closer to him might do, and the long-range consequences it might have.  
> _
> 
> _Think of this as me playing a little, seeing what could have happened in my personal pseudoheadcanon, and please don't shoot me. On the other hand, if you enjoy, or there is a major glaring error, that I do want to know. Without further ado, then. Obviously the material is not mine, and I mean no disrespect at all - in fact, quite the opposite. _
> 
> _Now that that's out there._

For a moment, he didn't realize what had happened. He felt his brother shudder and then begin slipping sideways off the horse; tried to catch him but could not stay mounted at the same time and leaped down, barely keeping his feet. Only then did he see his little brother's hands wrapped around the dart sunk deep in his breast, expression largely surprised, tugging fruitlessly at the shaft in what seemed more akin to befuddlement than pain.

Tyelko looked up, holding his brother upright, and saw Beren standing, expression fierce with righteous rage. Blood stained the front of his tunic. He was suddenly aware of how his own heart beat in counterpoint to his faltering brother's, strong and steady.

Kurvo's head fell forward, weight resting on Tyelko's arms, more helpless than he would ever be, before or thereafter.

Rage rolled up hot and smothering and fiercer than anything he had ever known, and yet he could not leave his brother dying. They had already had Kurvo's horse and were mounted as his brother slipped further in his arms, breathing beginning to sound wet. Beren spat on the ground as he took up the rains, eyes like chips of ice.

And he could do nothing.

Tyelko screamed in incoherent, impotent rage as they turned their backs and rode away. He wanted to kill them both, shoot down the horse and hunt them like beasts to their deaths -

And he could do nothing.

The voice surprised him, thick and barely recognizable. "Out." His brother's voice; he looked down and his little brother's glazed eyes watched him. His too red tongue flicked out and touched his lips, lightly. "Eru – take it out of me."

It was the first time in a very long while that Tyelko heard Kurvo invoke their god. It shook him, _he _shook slightly and eased Curufin to the ground, laid a hand over the dart, bolt between thumb and forefinger. The wood was warm and damp with blood and he watched with horrified fascination the way the shaft pulsed between his heartbeat and breathing.

"You'll bleed out," he said, faintly. "If I leave it – maybe we can make it – Thargelion is not so far."

"Die here, die there…" Curufin's mouth twitched. "There's no cure for a bolt in the chest. Take it out of me." Tyelko swallowed hard, wrapped his hand around the shaft, and hesitated.

"I'm sorry-" He began, but his brother's gaze was direct.

"Shut up. Don't know how wrong…want it out. One pull would be better." Tyelko felt sick, laid his hand on his brother's heaving chest, and met his eyes, bracing, before tugging once, hard. He felt it shift, nauseatingly, but the barbs caught with a hitch and Kurvo made a soft and plaintive noise, surprising in its evident pain for the first time. Tyelko froze, pulled back, but "No, again," Kurvo said, huskily, death already in his voice.

He tightened his fist and pulled again, and this time the head tore free in a burst of flesh and blood. His brother shuddered, violently, said a soft "Aaah," and died.

Tyelko stared at his brother's glazing gray eyes, blank, confused, unmoving, and after a moment closed them slowly, not wanting them to watch him anymore. The horror and despair came more slowly. Tears did not come at all.

**

He spent most of the day making his brother's grave. He had nothing to dig with and did not want to dull his sword, so he built a cairn instead. Tyelko closed his eyes as his brother's skin grayed and his limbs became rigid. He buried his little brother's knife, sword, and bow with him and straightened, slowly. Dusk began to fall and he felt stiff and sluggish as a corpse himself.

Tyelko felt empty. What now? Always, always, Kurvo had led him forward. For better or for worse, it was Kurvo who laid their course, Kurvo who set the paths, Kurvo who made the plans. Now he was just – dead. In barely a few moments, their father's favorite son had perished. Now there was nothing left but a makeshift grave beside a tree, name graven clumsily in wood staked in the ground as deep as it would go.

He could go to Thargelion, continue on the path they had set. Caranthir would likely welcome him. Or he could ride north to shelter with Maedhros.

Or, he thought, bleakly, he could simply ride northwest and wait for the Enemy's beasts to find him. It would be a fine thing to kill a dragon, or even to fall fighting one; but those were bleak thoughts, shameful thoughts, and he shook them away like flies.

He could ride to his brothers, flee his shame, tell them of the fall of one more of their number and how he had failed to stop it.

He could leave his younger brother lying cooling and unavenged in the ground, without a proper grave, with none of the honor due him, fallen simply to some upstart Edain who saw fit to challenge the way things were supposed to be.

_No. _

_Vengeance. _Once he thought the word it would not leave, and his blood which had been cold and sluggish and thin in his veins thickened and ran hot and began roaring in his ears. Staring blindly down at his brother's cairn, remembering the way Kurvo had shuddered and died, he thought the word again. _Vengeance. _

It tasted salty sweet on his tongue, like fire or blood, bitter enough to sting but sweet enough to satisfy. A word colored red. What was their name known for? _Vengeance. Never forgive. _

Beren had taken his nephew, his home, a life with children and the chance to take the world and mold it to a better place. And now, if that were not enough, he had taken, had _killed, _his younger brother: Curufin whom he had held and who had suckled his fingertips greedily when he was very small, who stood by him and defended him when he faced something he could not fight, Curufin whom he taught to hunt and trap and listen. Curufin who had stood with him even unto exile.

His right hand clenched, fingernails biting flesh. He swore on the sticky, drying blood on his hands that Beren would pay in his own red blood and tears, that Tyelkormo Turcafinwe would not rest until he hunted him down and spilled his lifeblood in the dirt, until he watched the light of life flee his eyes.

The whinny of his returning horse shook him from his reverie and he looked up. North. They rode north, to Doriath or further things. He could follow them, would follow them, track them easily, kill Beren, and then…

And then? What after?

Did it matter?

He brushed the thoughts off and turned with purposeful stride for his horse. After he could go to his brothers with Kurvo avenged. That could be good enough. But now – no mercy. Had he not been the best of hunters in Valinor, once so very long ago? It would be easy to remember how, and they would be hunted, no matter where they might go. No place would be safe and no wound would hold him back.

Tyelko set his sights northward, on the distant line of trees, and nudged his heels into his horse's sleek sides. _Better Findarato lived than you, _he thought, and a moment later did not understand himself. Already his thoughts ran red with blood, though his expression showed nothing at all.


	2. You and Me, Here Again

They rode slowly.

On the one hand he was grateful for it, but on the other it meant that they did not know they were being hunted. He wanted them to know – him, properly, to know and be afraid, look over his shoulder and sleep uneasily not knowing when his doom would come upon him. In simpler hunting it wasn't fear he sought, only a kill; but now, he thought, he wanted Beren to understand, wanted him to suffer.

Lúthien he barely spared a thought for, now; what lure could she hold? Better that she live to mourn her _oh so beloved _and bring word back to arrogant Thingol of Doriath of the implacable anger he had pricked. Better to watch her weep over his body as he had not wept over his brother's, and would not weep.

The calculated cruelty of his own thoughts sometimes jarred him, left him cold, but Tyelko did not forget the expression of surprise, the sound of pain, the way the barbed arrowhead had felt sticking in his brother's flesh. Cruelty; what was cruelty against death, the death of his baby brother? It was only a debt owed, and one that he would exact in full.

Tyelko considered how he would kill Beren when he had cornered his quarry at last. Long before then he would have the Edain on his knees before him and-

And then?

It was that same cursed question again, and he swept it aside. And then anything. Anything but mercy. No matter what his woman should beg, or what he himself should say, or how Tyelko's own anger might cool – mercy was the one thing he would not allow himself. He didn't truly think it should be a danger, as every time he considered this meticulous murder he took pleasure in it. In the blood, in the panting pain as his victim struggled not to scream and finally Curufin's shade sighed and rested, no longer hanging over his shoulder, moaning with soft discontentment.

**

"I could kill you." It surprised Tyelko for a moment, how cold it was to say that. Hadn't his temper always been hot and explosive? But there was simply nothing there. Just a blankness, even if he knew he could do it, holding his sword so that if he wanted to he could simply cut through the man's neck in one smooth stroke. He kept the edge keen enough for that.

His captive stayed silent, which was probably wise, but met his eyes with stubborn disgust, which was not. He wanted to put a hole through his Sindarin gut and leave him to bleed, but something stayed his hand. He had to admire the scout for not making a sound even when his fingers were clearly broken.

_Should have been paying closer attention, _he thought, _should have been more alert. What if he had been deadlier – or older? _

He blinked once, slowly, let his eyes remain half lidded. It was an expression Curufin had worn, sometimes, and it always seemed to make people nervous. It did not fail now, though the nervousness was barely a flicker. "You are Thingol's dog, yes?"

Anger, for a moment. Tyelko let his mouth thin, but did not smile. A simple nod sufficed as answer and a peculiar languor suffused his bones. "Doing what, then?" If the king of Doriath had been looking for him, he should have known better than to send this young and breakable thing. Perhaps he was in disfavor. Or perhaps it had nothing to do with him at all.

It did now, if it hadn't before. The boy, however, clamped his mouth shut. Tyelko stared down at him, sheathed the sword, and shifted his weight to press one boot over the broken fingers.

Only for a moment, but he screamed anyway, a sharp sound, and Celegorm felt the prick of annoyance. Taking too long and he would fall behind. Killing the fool would be more efficient, certainly. But what did it matter? He would catch the pair anyway. The scout recovered his breath, panting. "—looking. Just looking, that's all-"

For his daughter, of course. That was no longer interesting, either. It would be disappointing to lose the chance to make her recognize what her lover had done and what it had brought on him, but Thingol could have his daughter if he pleased. Perhaps if Kurvo were still alive – but he was not, and that was the reason he was here. Tyelko tapped his foot once.

"I see. And you saw gain by following a stranger, I suppose?"

"I guessed," the lad said, half gasping. Tyelko looked at him in disdain as he pulled his hand to his chest and tried to curl around it, but left the sword sheathed, and there was no attempt to rise. "Guessed that you might be – please, I was surprised to see any – you – traveling alone-"

"An easy target," Tyelko said placidly. The boy shivered, for some reason, but he flicked that off like blowflies, eyeing the hand and wondering if it could be fixed. Probably. If with difficulty. Artanis could have done it.

For thinking that name he wanted blood again. _Not yet. _"No, not that – only I heard-"

"You heard wrong," Tyelko heard himself say in a hollow voice. No one needed to know that Kurvo had died. It was too personal. What did it matter to them, who had never known him, who had never embraced him or hunted side by side… "I ride alone."

The boy looked him in the eyes, for a moment. He was not so much younger than Pityo, really, not at his best guess. But he could not think of that, could not allow these distractions, could not allow this stupidity. He had sworn himself to vengeance and could feel it now. Purring hungrily in his blood.

"I could kill you," he said again, and stepped back, slightly. "But I will not. Go back and tell your liege what you like. I care not." He turned his back, almost wanting the idiot to try something stupid, to try to plant a knife in his back. Then he could turn and remove his head from his shoulders and let some of the rage in his heart sing. Could divide him limb from limb one by one, leave his mouth intact to scream.

Tyelko wasn't sure if the sickness came from the anger or the thoughts his mind found. Perhaps both. The boy did not move, though, and he stayed his hand – this was not his purpose. No. He would take no lives that were not necessary, not until he had the one he wanted. Then, it did not matter. But he would keep his blade clean for Beren's throat.

He could feel the boy staring after him as he strode to his horse and mounted, guiding him in a tight circle to face the scout, his broken hand still curled to his chest.

Tyelko felt as though he should say something, some kind of wisdom that should be dispensed, something. A warning. Nothing came to him.

He moved quickly, drew his sword and in eight swift slashes carved the four pointed star below the boy's breastbone. He cried out in surprise and pain, and Tyelko could see the blood on the tip of his blade hit the ground. "A reminder," he said at last, and then rode away.

The scout did not follow him. The boy would lose blood but not in any too large quantity. It had not been a deep branding. Nonetheless, the more he thought about it the more he did not understand why he had done it at all. Maybe only boredom. Maybe so that Thingol would know this uneasy peace was not forever.

He paused, a moment, thinking about that. Would he fight with his brothers if his oath was still unfulfilled? Which would take precedence? And should Thingol strike first, would he take his brothers' side or pursue Beren even unto the ends of the earth?

Tyelko halted the horse. He could still go back. Thargelion was not so far, and Caranthir was always easy to find when you knew where to look. His brothers should know that Kurvo was dead, shouldn't they? They could all regroup, plan their revenge together…

He did not need the whisper in his ear to know the shade's displeasure. It was his fault, his failure alone, and therefore he needed to risk it. No other way to give his suffering sibling rest.

Looking back again, the scout was gone. He heeled his horse forward.

It was time to ride on.


	3. Sitting Waiting Wishing

Caranthir wanted to curse. More, he wanted to throw his cup at the wall to hear it break. But it would be a waste, and that they could not afford. Besides, it was not as though it would be particularly productive.

Nonetheless, he wanted to.

The missive itself was short and fairly innocuous, for the news it carried. It seemed almost a challenge anyway, and reading it over and over again he could not find anything else in it, or hardly anything. He knew the messenger was waiting for a response – the boy had ridden his horse nearly into the ground to get here so quickly – but he had no wish, in truth, to give one, and no idea what his response would be if he did.

His hand tightened around the cup of ale he held and he took a tight, short drink of it.

_Findarato is dead, the crown remains mine. Tyelkormo and Curufinwë have been cast out by popular will. There is no sign of the Enemy; he has made no move that we can ascertain. _

He threw the paper down on the table and jolted to his feet. Really, he should have expected as much. With Tyelko the way he was and Kurvo the way _he _was even more so, being under anyone's rule would chafe, and especially Finrod's rule, restrained and dignified. Neither of which his brothers, despite what they might like to think, quite managed.

So they were exiled, stripped of whatever influence they had, and went where?

That was what troubled him. If he trusted the letter and the messenger, it had been at least a week since the exile and he had heard nothing. True, two riders rode more slowly than one determined messenger, and there was no real rush. But no message from either of them, no indication where they would go?

Caranthir considered whether or not to alert anyone to watch for them and decided against it. That pair would make themselves known quickly enough. His mouth twisted. Perhaps that was the concern. They were crossing the country, no doubt furiously angry at this humiliation, and there had not been one word of any confrontation, any skirmish even with Elu Thingol's borders so closely watched and those guards making a tempting target, he could imagine, for either of his angry brothers.

It was giving him a headache and pricking his temper, and being angry made everything less efficient, and he wanted things to be efficient. It wasn't as though anyone _else _could keep track of the levies effectively, and that meant they needed quite a bit of attention just so that no one tried to cheat. Though at least they didn't do that so much after he'd caught the first few trying.

Caranthir unclenched his hand, not sure when he had closed it, and laid it flat on the table so he could keep an eye on it. He wanted them to come here, or else to receive word that they had gone to Maedhros, or _somewhere. _Anywhere that was not wandering who knew where and likely wreaking havoc along the way, if he knew Kurvo at all. Of course, it didn't matter what Caranthir wanted. No one was listening, after all. No one was ever listening. _Damn _them.

And of course there was the creeping nervous feeling that they were not en route at all, and would never arrive here or anywhere. Orodreth himself would never condone Kinslaying, but if the mood had grown ugly enough it was not so hard to plant a knife in anyone's back, no matter how vigilantly they watched it. And Celegorm, while a very good hunter, was not precisely known for extreme caution. Regrets could be very eloquently expressed after the victim was dead, if it was ever made known. After all, travel was dangerous enough, and even competent, skilled warriors made mistakes.

Thinking about the fact that his brothers – well, if he was honest, brother – might be lying in a ditch somewhere, dead, snapped the leash on his temper. He jerked to his feet, threw the damn glass, and a moment later regretted he hadn't finished the ale first. Crumpling the letter in one fist, he pitched it into a corner. The messenger could fucking wait. Or maybe he wouldn't say anything at all and see how much Orodreth liked silence. Idiocy, all of it. _Idiocy. _Caranthir did not have much patience for idiocy.

He stalked for the door and threw it open. The air was a relief. He could tolerate it, but being locked inside would never be an activity Caranthir savored. He could hear the swords from here, and that was a relief as well.

Many didn't practice with live steel. Moryo and his brothers never practiced with anything but. It made it easy to tell when one of them was working the training yards. And he knew the rhythms well enough, now, as well – perhaps that was strange, but he kept track of his brothers, at least.

Or tried to. Damned idiots. Kurvo had to get _ideas_ and Tyelko had to go and throw himself into holes without checking for the bottom first. Sometimes – most of the time – it was immensely frustrating having brothers who never seemed to _think._

It took him a moment to realize that one hand was wrapped white knuckled around his sword hilt, and he let go of it reluctantly. It would have been nice, useful, even, to be able to cross blades with someone who would actually provide a challenge. But it was never a good idea to fight anything less than seriously when his blood was up, and he didn't have the time. The sharp, tense note stayed in his voice anyway. "Pityo!"

The clang stopped and his redheaded brother turned to look at him, nearly expressionless. He went that way, mostly when he was fighting. It itched under Caranthir's skin but there seemed little he could do about it, no matter how irritating that was as well. Everything was irritating today, it seemed. Or maybe just his siblings. "Did I tell you about the message?"

"No," the lone twin said, sheathing his sword, smoothly, "But I heard about it. Everyone has, by now. If you wanted it to be quiet you should have kept the messenger under lock and key."

After Pityo pointed it out, of course, it seemed obvious. He wanted to growl. So much for vaunted cleverness. More failings. When one started looking they were everywhere. Caranthir glared at a passing guard for no good reason and felt a slight satisfaction when he scurried out of the way. "And your conclusions?"

"I don't make conclusions," said Pityo, dryly, "That's your job." They fell into step together easily enough. One could almost think it was natural. "I assume you're wondering why we have heard nothing?"

"You assume right. It would be rather nice to know that they're not dead somewhere," He knew the irritation in his voice made it sound like if the case were otherwise it would be their fault. That, he didn't think, was entirely unfair. Pityo shrugged.

"Neither is particularly communicative at the best of times. I would hardly call this the best of times."

Caranthir worked his right hand and tried to think about taxes. That was more cheering than thinking about brothers. "And yet it is somewhat unexpected that they would be cast out entirely. And the reason for that – doesn't it seem reckless and foolhardy to you?"

"If you ever try to counsel me to reason, Moryo, I will be very tempted to hit you upside the head." Pityo shook his head. "I don't think they're dead, Caranthir. It would undermine Orodreth at a time when Nargothrond is likely fragmented enough as it is. If he claims they have been exiled, then they are gone. What happens after that is no more than imagination."

Caranthir let the silence lengthen, considering that. It was true. To soil his hands even indirectly, even with the blood of murderers, would not be an association Orodreth would wish to bear. Even in revenge for his brother's death. Not that he would ever call it revenge, even if he took it: revenge was too much the province of those he would denounce as Kinslayers.

Not that the thought that they were wandering somewhere between Nargothrond and Thargelion, with the expanse of Doriath between, was precisely comforting. "And imagination, I find," he said, dryly, "Leaves too much to the imagination. I need to _know._"

Pityo shrugged, slightly, looking tired for the first time. "I will be concerned later. Keep your eyes north, brother – I don't trust this quiet. I hate to say it, but sometimes I think you worry too much."

"Sometimes I need to," Caranthir muttered, but more to himself than anything, and was grateful that his brother didn't respond.


	4. And On We Go

Tyelko knew that despite the delay with the messenger, he was gaining on his targets. They were slowing now, perhaps arguing over their route. Tyelko wondered distantly if Beren would truly dare to go north to Angband to steal a Silmaril from the Enemy. He would die, of course, but that held no satisfaction for him. It had to be at his hands, and no one else's. Any other way would not suffice.

The man would probably keep his word and go, but he would not want to take his lady with him, not into so grave a danger. And besides, she would not want to be left behind while he risked his life. Once, he might have understood the emotions behind these things. They had died out now, and all he could think, coolly, was of the advantage it gave him that they were quarreling, no matter how mildly, over their next course. They were still far north of Doriath and far south of the mountains, riding east.

It was still a surprise to crest one of the small ridges and see them both below, his brother's horse ground-tied, Huan lying by the small fire. The lovers themselves sat with their arms around each other. He searched himself for jealousy and found none – there was no room for it, perhaps – but there was rage aplenty.

Tyelko felt a smile curve his lips nonetheless.

Huan scented him, of course, and was on his feet in a moment, hackles high. Tyelko ignored the pang that caused him, ignored the words that did not carry, ignored the shouts as the pair leapt to their feet and turned. He was far enough away to be able to make out what Beren was saying without hearing the words.

_No closer – Luthien, stay back-_

Foolishness. He smiled more widely and knew when he was looking at those ice blue eyes, even from a distance. He held them long enough to feel the tension vibrate along that link.

He was the one to break it, nudging his horse back down the hill. A warning. They could have a warning, no more.

He retreated a little ways away and waited, but there was no challenge and no movement of horse. So they argued, and perhaps understood that where they went, he would follow, thorough as a winter tempest. They were waiting. They were all waiting.

Celegorm paced. Never one to stay still for long, he stalked back and forth in the circle of light cast by his fire, again considering Beren's death. It would have to be fair, of course. Otherwise there would be too much change to claim injustice. He would not have it said that he needed to cheat to defeat a mere Edain warrior.

The wind changed, and tilting his head, he could hear them arguing. He knew both the voices well – Beren's from his impassioned plea to Finrod so much time ago, Lúthien's from their conversations in her locked room in Nargothrond. He closed his eyes to hear better.

"…would be to give in. No – no, I will not-"

"If you insist on throwing yourself into danger then you cannot ask me to let you go alone!"

"Can I not? Why? I live to protect you-"

"And so you would send me away. Would you rather I had stayed back all along, then, wringing my hands and weeping, waiting placidly for any news?"

"I'm only asking you to go back-"

"You are asking me too much." She sounded anguished. "I can help you. Let me stay here."

"Let you stay here and take your chances with – _that_? You saw, surely you must know that even in the short term this can only end in blood-"

"I would that you held back." That surprised him, a little. How much had she said of her captivity, he thought to wonder, what details had she given? Not enough. Beren likely thought the worst, most sordid details a mind like his could dream up. Tyelko wished him joy of them. They would have to be remembered, would serve as a weapon and a distraction when he needed them.

"I would that you held back," Lúthien said again, "It is ill enough that the other died already. To finish in more bloodshed will only bring more vengeance upon you and while perhaps you and I together can withstand one or a pair of the Sons of Fëanor, I would fain meet even a small army of theirs on any battlefield."

Beren's anger thickened his voice audibly. "I am not afraid of that spawn. And I do not regret that death any more than I would that of a biting fly." Celegorm felt his blood turn to ice and let his fingernails bite into his palm. Hold fast, hold back. It was easier to wait now, though, and it was satisfying to think of the Edain's blood spilling on the ground after being forced to rescind that statement.

"For what he and his accursed brother did to Felagund, it was less than deserved. For what they did to you." His voice softened, and Tyelko closing his eyes could imagine the hand touching his beloved's face, tenderly. Murder pulsed in his veins again and he smothered it ruthlessly.

"Have compassion," she murmured, so very quietly. "I understand you are angry, but nonetheless…and I still must come with you. Do not ask me anything else."

"Beloved, if you would only listen to me-"

"I would bleed and die for you as much as you would for me."

Celegorm took a breath through his nose, not quite sharply, and tried not to think. It wasn't so difficult – his head was still strangely clear, though it felt as though that phrase ought to stir or prod some open wound in him. Now leaning back against the roll of his bedding, he rested his head on the grass, keeping one ear open to listen as there was a pause. Perhaps a sigh, perhaps not. He heard nothing more, but could imagine the rest easily enough.

"_And that is what I cannot allow you to do," _he would say, and then she would look away and ask, _"Why are we arguing? You are not my enemy and I am not yours. He is here. Behind us." _

That was all he needed to hear, as far as he needed to think. He let a smile curl his lips and half closed his eyes again. It should have touched him, her love, their loyalty to each other, but he could not let it. He himself had been loyal to his brothers – unto death, how often had he thought or said that very phrase? – and now his brother was dead and not he. She would try to protect him just as he tried to protect Kurvo. It would be useless, of course. He didn't want her and didn't want her dead.

_Yes, I am your enemy. Know I am here. Be afraid._

He closed his eyes the rest of the way and imagined going over the hill now. Perhaps they were making love, crying out in soft ways, bodies twined together. It would be easy to creep behind them with a long knife and finish it here. Stab the knife in at the base of his enemy's back and open him from there to the neck. But no – no. Too quick.

It needed to be long, not just the killing but all of it. He needed time to savor it. Time to extract the full payment and plan how he would take it. But now it had begun, now that they both knew they were not alone.

Now he could truly hunt them. End him. End this. But not too quickly. Never too quickly. That, he knew, would be too much like mercy.

And that luxury he would never allow himself.


	5. Counting My Days Down

"By all the Valar, _be silent!_"

Short-tempered was an understatement on the best of days, and this was not the best of days. Caranthir surged to his feet from his seat and stalked down the stairs from the dais, perfectly aware of and all right with the fact that his expression was very close to murderous. Everyone in the hall was trying very hard both not to look and watch very closely. Fools, all of them, ignorant, small-minded –

"You," he said, coldly, to the man now cowering somewhere around the vicinity of his knees. "Have you thought this through at all? No. The answer has been no before now and still is. And if your folk persist in asking me stupid questions I might have to get irritated with you." He grinned, very deliberately, and turned his back to a profound silence.

_That _was satisfying.

"That is all. I think I'll wait to deal with the rest of your lot until later." Looking up, he realized that Pityo was leaning against the chair on the dais and watching him with an expression that appeared to be trying very hard not to smile. He deepened his glare, which had no effect on his brother but rather hastened the bustle for the door.

Ignoring the fleeing crowds, he took the stairs two at a time to meet his brother. "Any news? Next time feel free to interrupt me, I'd rather hear you than the complaints of any number of men trying to get out of their taxes or weasel more free land out of me at the behest of their leaders."

"You looked like you were having fun. I didn't want to stop you." Pityo's face was so perfectly straight that Caranthir could not help reaching out and ruffling his hair, mischievously.

"Don't fool yourself. I wasn't. News, Pityo."

The very slight grin faded. "Nothing. No word, and the borders are still quiet. I checked that too. If I had better news I would have interrupted you."

Caranthir swore. He'd been so certain that they would come here first! Even if Curufin would have opposed it, he thought that Tyelko would speak for it at least. If they were dead something ought to have been heard of that, too, at least. Anything would be better than silence - or almost anything.

"I'm almost tempted to give them another week and hope they're only slow." What would slow them down? Being wounded. Following that train of thought led nowhere good either. If they had been captured, there should have been some ransom. What did it _mean? _

He shouldn't bother thinking about it. It only resulted in headaches and a shorter temper than usual.

"Almost tempted. Oddly enough, I don't quite believe that. Is that shocking, brother?"

"No. Because I'm not going to. Come with me, I'm writing a letter to Maitimo. Perhaps he's heard something we haven't." He started toward the door to the halls behind the dais and only paused when he realized Pityo wasn't following.

"What are you waiting for?"

"I don't think I've ever seen you this anxious."

"I'm not anxious. I'm angry," Caranthir snapped, though he could feel the hair on the back of his neck prickle. "I've never had the need to."

"Why now? We've all been in mortal danger before."

Caranthir didn't stop to consider that question, and deliberately did not voice all the things that made this different. With every passing day it seemed more and more possible that one or both of them was dead. With every passing day without news it seemed clearer that he might never even know. And there was the fact that they were now traitors, despised by most of the inhabitants of Beleriand on every side, now.

Two lone hunters, he could not help reminding himself, would not pose such a difficult target to a determined bowman. Morbidly, he let himself picture it again as he imagined in sleepness nights: dark horse rearing, Tyelko yelling and trying to bring it into line until his voice died in the hard sound of the arrows sprouting from his torso and then through his neck.

He shook his head. Sometimes imagination seemed a remarkably unhelpful thing. "What, and you're not concerned?" He didn't mean it to sound like an accusation, but it must have, because Pityo bristled visibly.

"Of course I am. Maybe you just don't show it so much and that's why I'm surprised."

"Why should I," he muttered, but let the subject go, turning toward the door again. "You're going to have to help me with this. If only for moral support."

"It'll only be moral support. You're better at writing letters than I am."

Slipping into his study – or whatever the room should be called – Moryo almost felt the weight of the room settle on his shoulders, like he was carrying the whole damn ceiling on his shoulders. He hated this room, small and cramped and cluttered. Any day, it would be better to be outside risking his life than in here tallying accounts and counting gold, no matter how nice it looked in large quantities. Sitting down, though, and pulling the quill out, sucking its tip, he felt a slight surge of energy for actually being able to do something.

Even if it was only to write a damned letter. "There's someone we can spare to carry this, isn't there?"

"Most likely. I'm sure I can find someone, if you would like me to."

"I would." Dipping the quill in the inkwell, he set the point to some parchment and considered how to phrase this.

_Maitimo, I don't know what you have heard but I certainly hope you've gotten some word that Kurvo and Tyelko have gotten themselves exiled from Nargothrond. Findarato's dead, I imagine his son is pissed. If you knew this already, especially from a first hand source, I would very much like to know. You know how irritable being left out makes me. Don't get yourself killed between now and the next time you see me. _

_Also, if you don't have any news I would appreciate your permission to go looking for said 'news.' I'll probably go looking either way, but it would be appreciated if you gave me an excuse for doing it. Hope things are as dull where you are as they are here. _

Caranthir lifted the quill and looked up at Pityo. "Subtle enough?"

"No. About as much as a boulder to the head."

"Good. I don't need subtlety." Stuffing the quill messily away and ignoring the smears it made on the wood, he scattered sand over the letters, dumped it on the floor, and folded the short missive crisply in thirds. "And Maitimo could probably use a boulder to the head."

"One would hardly know you're related to these people sometimes, the way you talk about them," Pityo murmured, and Caranthir shot him a look and poured the wax slowly over the letter to seal it before stamping it with his seal and eying it with satisfaction.

"It's because I'm related to them. If I didn't like them I'd use something a lot sharper than a rock."

"I'd never have guessed." Pityo's voice was almost a drawl. "Do you want me to take that?"

"Please." Caranthir held the letter out for his little brother to take. "Find someone to deliver it. If this lasts much longer I'll just take off for Nargothrond myself and shake the truth out of Orodreth. Maybe he just sent them to Thingol if he didn't want to dirty his own hands. That would likely be as good as a death sentence, especially if his damn daughter was mentioned."

Pityo's hand, to his surprise, fell lightly on his forearm, and he looked at his brother, startled. "If you keep talking like that," he said, softly, "I'm going to think you're already assuming our brothers are dead."

He didn't think about that, deliberately and very firmly did not think about that. _And arrows sprouting from his chest… _"No. Of course not." He made his voice utterly flat. "Then what would be the point in looking?"

_There's no use thinking that way. I won't believe it until I see their graves. _

Pityo understood what he didn't say and squeezed his arm, once, before letting go. "I'll send the letter. I'm sure Maitimo will be quick to reply."

"He'd better," Caranthir muttered, "I don't think I can put up with another week of those idiots out there without some good news." And it had best be good news. I don't think I can put up with anything else."


	6. Becoming

Tyelko hadn't meant to fall asleep, and wasn't at all sure when he had managed to. He did know that when he woke it was too quiet, the ground was damp, and in a moment he was quite aware that Beren and his woman had departed earlier, while he was resting. He cursed himself with all the savagery he could summon.

Of course they would fly. What had he expected, that this would be an orderly chase that followed all the rules and proceeded as planned? He, a hunter, ought to have known better. No hunt proceeded as planned. And the one that did was the one most likely to fail.

At least they weren't hard to track. It appeared their decision had been made. The tracks led south to Doriath, though he could see within a few steps that his dog – no, not his dog anymore, thought it was hard to remember that – was no longer with them.

Tyelko set the question of where Huan had gone aside. So much the better. It would have only been hard to have to wound his truest friend when the hound tried to stand in the way of his vengeance.

It occurred to him, looking down at the last of the visible, milling paw prints, that once it would have hurt to think that. Or even been unthinkable. But then, Curufin was dead, and now nothing seemed to reach that point anymore.

It was almost as though something had been burned out of him, but he felt no loss.

South, though. So they rode to Doriath.

He followed them. His brother's shade rode at his shoulder, louder now with its no-longer-so-soft murmurs of murder and bloodshed and always, always _Vengeance. _He hadn't lost so much ground and they continued to travel slowly enough that moving at an easy trot he could gain on them, keeping a wary eye on the trees to his right. If they got into Doriath, they would be safe, where he could not touch them. Perhaps Thingol himself would cut them off, but Celegorm doubted it. No matter how great his dislike for Beren, it could not possibly be as intense as his hatred for the Sons of Fëanor. That was a pity.

They were still miles from the boundaries of Melian's Girdle, though, and riding two astride one horse would slow them down. Even if he could only cut them off, drive them further south where he could drag a hunt out for weeks…

…to the south, away from his brothers. _What do you think they would do, hold you back? Leash you? Surely they would understand, see the necessity of this thing… _

Why was he afraid they would not?

"There's nothing out here. No one out here."

Tyelko brought his horse in sharply and thanked – someone, anyone, though not Eru, that he had never lost the hunting habit of listening while thinking about something else. Voices, and tilting his head he guessed a few horses as well, perhaps five, a small fire. And why were they here?

The quiet made him nervous, a moment, but it was only a lull in the conversation. They expected no pursuit, and no company. There might be bleak things on these plains, but it had been quiet of late. Anything daring enough to take a party of five Elven warriors would make enough noise to alert them long in advance.

"We've hardly been out two days hard riding and barely covered any ground. They could be anywhere, remember?"

Tyelko began to guess at their intent, and narrowed his eyes slightly, and a moment later sprang from his horse's back, letting the reins down. The horse was well trained enough to stay still, and he was quiet enough to move like a shadow to the ground, listening.

Eavesdropping like a rat. The thought made his mouth twist, but it was appropriate enough that he didn't try to argue with it. His brother's shade panted, twice, and hissed in his ear. _Move. _

He held back.

"Yes, exactly. There must be some better way to go about this rather than just – blindly sweeping the countryside. And I'd sooner be better armed, you saw what Ionglad came back looking like-"

Was that the name of the scout? That seemed so long ago now, though if he considered it it couldn't have been more than a week. Probably less. The boy was fast. And still alive, that was strangely heartening, though he walled that thought away as soon as he recognized it.

"Not our concern. We avoid everyone but the princess and her Edain, and them we bring back, both alive."

"And maybe this lunacy with Fëanor's creations can be done with…"

There was a buzzing in Tyelko's ears, or perhaps the hissing of an angered ghost. His blood turned cold and he could feel his heartbeat slow, slow, stop. _Bring them back, alive…both alive. The princess and her Edain. _

_They will deprive me of my kill. _

It seemed the most sensible thing in the world to stand, then, draw his sword, and move like his own brother's shade over the lee of the hill and attack. He ran the first through the back before he had the chance to turn and tore the blade free to take off another's head as he tried to rise. The humming in his blood grew louder, harder, sharper, and he could not hear his own heartbeat. The third managed to get his sword out and catch Tyelko's on the crossguard, but he slid the sword forward and into his enemy's gut before jerking the blade up, turning before his victim fell.

He beheaded the last in one smooth stroke, and then it was quiet. The stillness was so sudden and complete that he nearly staggered, thrown off balance by his surprise.

It was over so quickly.

The sun was setting and he stood by the dying embers of their fire, blood streaking his sword and hitting the ground drop by drop by drop. It was so dead-quiet that he could hear the sound as each found earth and soaked into the thirsty dirt. He felt hollow.

He turned in a slow circle, noting the bodies sprawled around him. Five men dead and his heart didn't even beat a little faster. They'd hardly even known he was there. And he felt nothing for it. Not even satisfaction for the efficiency with which it had been done.

Tyelko bent, knelt, and wiped his blade on a cloak, meeting the staring dark eyes. Surprised, just as Kurvo had been. Did anyone expect death?

Would he expect his own end, when it came?

He felt hollow.

The shade stirred and whispered in his ear as he straightened, murmuring something. He didn't feel the need to listen, knowing already what his brother would say.

They would have taken his prey. It was no more than he would have dealt to a lion between him and a deer he had marked. No more, no less, no worse, and no better. Enough. _Enough. _

There was an itch between his shoulder blades where he couldn't scratch. Tyelko flexed his hand to crack the drying crust of blood and took a deep slow breath that tasted coppery on his tongue.

They died because he would let no hand but his own bring Beren down. Sheathing the sword, he rolled his shoulders back and stamped out the last embers. _Only Sindarin, after all. _He dismissed any more thought of the dead elves and didn't stop to search their belongings. He needed nothing from them. All he truly needed was in the sheath at his hip and the sword in his hand; that would be enough.

Doriath seemed too close, suddenly, or else these were too bold. He would have to end this sooner than he liked.

So be it.

He mounted, brought his horse in a narrow circle, and drove his heels into the beast's sides. He was drawing near to his goal, and he could almost taste it, but the anger seemed to have gone. He wanted it back, needed it back, needed something in place of this frozen emptiness too deep to fill.

He hesitated, a moment. His brothers could heal that, perhaps. The shade moaned, softly, unhappily, and he shoved it away. Caranthir was close by, perhaps he could fill the void. It would be easy to turn and ride due east. He would reach Thargelion in a matter of days and it wouldn't be hard to find his brother from there.

He knew the answer before the thought was over, and closed that opening door with a slight pang of regret. While he did this, he could not be one of them. While he did this, he could not be anything but vengeance itself. Tireless, fearless, and merciless.

Afterward there would be time to heal, if healing could be found, or at least to cleanse the open wound in shared grief. But that was for after.

When Beren shed his last drops of blood, then…

And only then.

Their trail was easy to read and followed a straight line. If he rode quickly, he could catch up to them soon. He breathed slow and evenly and closed his eyes, to gather himself, to be death.


	7. Marked In Wood

The arc of steel came down gracefully, severing the sword arm, and the backwards stroke cut the body open, spilling sand over his feet. He ended by slamming his sword into the facsimile enemy's shoulder and left it embedded there as he peeled off his gloves, panting and soaked in a mix of sweat and rain.

"Is that helpful?" Caranthir looked up too quickly and almost heard his neck crack, but it was Pityo again, watching him from under an overhang from which the water sheeted like a waterfall. It stung the back of his neck where the drops hit and Caranthir almost savored the feeling, selfishly.

"No. It's not. No word?"

"If there was word I would tell you first thing. Nothing. Come out of the rain, Moryo, getting yourself drenched isn't doing anyone any good. And neither is destroying the practice dummies. No matter how many times you hack them to pieces, they still won't bleed."

"They don't need to bleed," he muttered, but trudged off the muddy field, yanking his sword free and ducking under the roof, holding the blade under the stream of water to clean it. Pityo nudged him with his shoulder, his smile faint and wry.

"If I didn't know better, I would think you were uneasy, too. Good thing I know you so well, brother. No misconceptions from me." Caranthir let his mouth twist. It had been too long, now, to spout excuses about delays or slowness. Too long for him, anyway – and all he could do was wait for a letter from Maitimo or some word, something, to give him permission to leave and go searching.

"If I leave, I don't want you to do anything foolish and get yourself exiled as well," he said, shortly, "Is that understood?"

"Maitimo's not going to want you to go anywhere. Especially not on those plains, alone."

Caranthir shrugged. "Maitimo can not like it as much as he wants. They're our brothers. I'm going. I'd just like to know how much trouble I'll be in when I get back before I do."

Pityo's mouth twitched, almost amused. "I won't do anything foolish, Moryo. I've even watched you long enough to get a bit of a head for those taxes. I'll make sure no one thinks they can cheat with you gone." Caranthir rolled his shoulders and shot Pityo an affectionate look, though he did not, this time, ruffle his hair.

"Brother after my own heart." He frowned at the opened dummy. "And if they're just dawdling they'll be sorry, I can tell you that."

"I tremble to be in their shoes." Another nudge of his shoulder, and another flash of that quick and wry smile. "Maitimo won't waste time before replying. It shouldn't be-"

"My lord!"

Their heads turned in unison, Caranthir's followed by the rest of his body, and he felt a horrible swooping sensation in his belly and wondered, horribly and selfishly, if no news was the news he would rather have. _They are not dead, _he thought, fiercely, and lifted his head, straightened. "Yes?"

He knew the approaching elves – scouts, but not ones that had been out recently. They'd been gone for months, now, ranging far beyond the usual places of his control. His dread increased. "News," said the one who had spoken first, "I think you'd best come inside, my lord, where we can talk properly." Caranthir felt Pityo's hand fall on his shoulder and give it a squeeze, and momentarily was furious with himself for showing so much tension, even if no one but his brother would see it.

"You will tell us both," Pityo said, and when the scouts nodded impatiently, it was with a matched stride that the brothers headed back for the main hall of the fortress. Caranthir allowed the silence to remain between them, determined not to break it. "It doesn't mean bad news," his younger brother said, under his breath. "It doesn't mean anything."

_I don't need to be Artanis to guess that that isn't true, _he thought, but didn't say. He knew they both knew it, and didn't want any further confirmation.

**

CURUFINWË.

It was rough and barely legible, but Caranthir could read it. He ran his thumb over the wood and traced the letters one at a time, slowly, in silence. Buying himself time where he didn't need to speak.

The scout swallowed. "A cairn. On the plains of Estolad – there was nothing else nearby – not for miles. We rode straight back after…"

He looked down again, traced the last E, and handed it to his brother. Pityo's expression was utterly unreadable. He was glad to be sitting down when the ground fell away beneath his feet, but he needed to say something. "Thank you," he said. "And there is nothing else…"

"Nothing else. Any tracks had been lost. It was not a hastily built cairn, though, my lord – made with some care. To last." He could feel them watching him, and knew that they knew, now. Of course it was inevitable that the news would spread. What was there to do about that? He could not deny it.

Pityo handed the rough stake back. "Any sense of who it might have been?" Moryo admired the collected coolness of his brother's voice, even if his knuckles were white clenched around the wood.

There was a long hesitation, and then the scout took a slow couple steps forward, holding out a slender piece of wood, silent. Caranthir stood and moved forward to take it, feeling numb. He rolled the shaft of the arrow, nibbled clean of the blood that would have been there, examined the fletching. He weighed the arrowhead in his hand, even if he knew without looking too closely that it was one of Curufin's own.

"You found this? No other weapon?" Pityo peered over his shoulder and took a breath through his teeth, so he recognized it too.

"No other weapon, my lord." He paused. "I should say – that you should know that there are Sindarin patrols out in force over much of the plains. We avoided them, and I do not know what their business is."

Sindarin patrols. Curufin dead. Celegorm still missing. His ears buzzed like he'd struck his head against something. It was falling into place as his mind, whirling, considered it, and he wished sorely that it was not, that the construction in his mind might be utterly and completely false.

"You may go," he said, voice empty, carefully drained of emotion. "Thank you. If you would, pray keep this as much to yourselves as possible – and if you cannot, then do not speak in detail, or I will be…displeased."

"Of course, my lord," They bowed and turned to go as Caranthir sank into his throne again, waiting for them to leave the room. Pityo followed and closed the door quietly behind their backs.

It was true that if he was honest, he had little love for Curufin. They were too much alike and too much apart to ever get along. Moryo was too aware of Curufin's easy manipulation of anyone who he thought could be useful, without consideration for their wellbeing. But he was still his brother, and all the dislike in the world could not make this news painless.

But that was only an ache compared to his growing sense of unease, and beside that, anger. If he guessed aright, and he was fairly certain that it wasn't a bad thought, the increased patrols meant that Thingol was somehow involved. That made it seem likely, plausible, that the hand of this Edain lover of his daughter had slain Curufin. He wanted to fan the anger, but it was not his first instinct.

What about Tyelko?

He had vanished, apparently after carefully interring the body of the brother – no matter how much he might resent it – closest to him. He had vanished without a word, without a trace, and without leaving a body.

He knew, he _knew _that Tyelko was not quite stable, and had become less so of late – nowhere was that more evident than in his actions – and if his little brother had been killed before his eyes…

"Moryo?" He looked up, and met his brother's eyes. Pityo had had a twin, once, who had died scarcely moments after they set foot on land. Telvo had been the first death, Fëanor the second. Curufin had always wanted to follow their father, hadn't he? The grim thought nearly made him want to rasp a laugh, or would have if he didn't feel so horribly bleak.

"You understand," he said, softly.

"I understand." His little brother's expression still showed almost nothing. "I understand that one of our own has been murdered and I understand that I will never accept this with any sort of calm. And I understand the importance of your finding him before he does anything else stupid. Or is simply shot down at a distance by one of these damned patrols."

There, finally, Caranthir felt the anger. He embraced it with relief, grateful that it was there at all. "Thingol has never been anything but trouble," he snapped, "If any of them set so much as a toe within these borders I'll send them back in pieces." He narrowed his eyes. "Maybe even if they don't."

Pityo glanced at him. "Send him an angry letter. Maybe that will help."

Caranthir jerked to his feet and paced back and forth across the floor. "The only letter I want is one from Maitimo. Then I'll be gone and back here with Turco, whatever it takes." As long as he hasn't done anything monumentally stupid already.

"You don't need to convince me, Moryo," said Pityo, in a strikingly soft voice, and Caranthir hated him just a little for draining all the protective anger in just those few words.

_Just once, _he thought, not even sure he directed it to the Valar or anyone else, _just once, can we get a little lucky? _

Of course there was no answer, and Caranthir pushed it out of his mind.


	8. And Now It Ends

They had stopped running.

He slowed as well, then, wondering if this Edain was bold enough, stupid enough, to turn and try to face him head on. He suspected so, and the grim satisfaction that though gave him drew his lips back from his teeth in a feral grin.

He was close enough now that he could hear the sounds of their arguing, some nights, when the wind was right. Close enough that if he opened his mouth, he imagined, he could almost taste the salt of his tears, sweat, and blood. In his ear, the first intelligible words other than vengeance that the shade had spoken: _end this. _

_I will, my brother, _he swore, head bowed under the stars, _I will end this, and not rest until I have avenged you. _

He crested the hill the next day to see them both, in the shadow of a small copse of trees, Luthien hanging back with the horse. He could feel her eyes but ignored them, focusing instead on the man before her, his sword bare and gleaming in the rising sun. He held his head proudly, righteously, as though he had nothing to fear because of the glory of his cause, and Tyelko felt himself smile.

The rightness of a cause did not confer immortality. He knew that because of this man.

"Come down!" Beren bellowed, and Tyelko almost admired the anger in his voice, but didn't have the emotion left for that. "Come down, misbegotten son of evil, and fight me, sword to sword, if you dare it!"

The joy, the fierce and wild and savage joy that welled up like water from a spring, surprised him, but he let it come. He threw back his head and laughed, with sudden, startling joy as he hadn't felt in far too long. Something unclenched, loosened in him, and he laughed, full-throated and full of an unnatural kind of happiness.

At last, at last, he was doing something.

He leaped from the back of his horse even as it began to move restlessly, drew his sword and moved like water down the hill. This man, this _man _thought he could beat him, who had grown up nearly with a sword in his hand and been at war long before Beren's grandfather had been born? Suddenly, everything was so…easy.

He breathed out, still smiling – and could see the briefest flicker of apprehension in his enemy's eyes. What need did he have of anger with this glorious, clean emptiness filling him and leaving everything sharp-edged and clear? He half imagined he could see every moment before it came. His heart thudded in time with the whispers in his ear, end this, end this, and he was tired of holding still. Tired of doing nothing. Tired of the cold.

He brought the sword up. The clarity broke, shattered into red shards of nothing, and he lunged. Beren caught the sword's descent, of course, but Tyelko pressed it, gray eyes boring into blue. "For my brother," he said, softly, and pressed harder before breaking away, the movement easy, as natural as breathing. _End this, end this, end this. _

_No, let me exact my payment first._

"You attacked us. Would you forbid a man to defend his wife?"

Tyelko did not question the title, but struck out again. Beren was quicker than he expected, but he would tire. All he had to do was wait. The smile came back without his asking for it. "And you challenged me. Does that make it self-defense when I kill you?"

Beren moved, this time, on the offensive. Tyelko felt more fluid than he had in years, slipping out of the way of the blade and catching a slash across Beren's shoulder, now between him and Lúthien. He didn't let the deadly smile fade. "Or I could just kill her."

The furious noise Beren made was infinitely satisfying as he lunged on the attack again. He wanted to laugh again, but there were more important things to remember. "You should have kept running," he murmured, meeting Beren's eyes again, as they locked swords, "You would have had a better chance.

_End this. Vengeance. _

_Very well. _Celegorm shifted the grip on his blade and moved for the kill.

He lost himself in the sweep and cut and turn of the blade, the movements falling into place, defend cut parry _slash _another cut in the other shoulder. He could see a weak place in the ground, and drove Beren back over it, mercilessly, almost _possessed _with a strange energy, yet again cloaked in that feeling of detachment, that this was all someone else, someone else's body. Down-cut across, forcing Beren back, and even if he knew he was taking small wounds himself, he did not feel them, felt nothing but the blood pumping through his veins, the sound increasing louder and louder until he could hear nothing else-

Beren stumbled. Tyelko brought the flat of the blade against his fingers and kicked the dropped sword away. He almost cried out as he finished what uneven ground had begun and forced his enemy to his knees.

Finally. _Finally. _He paused, feeling his lips peel back from his teeth, and wasn't sure if he snarled or smiled. In his neck as he fought to rise, Beren's pulse beat in perfect synchrony with his own and finally, there would be blood enough to pay his brother's death away and let him rest in peace.

Now it ends. _Look into my eyes, fool, _he thought, savagely, _and know your death. _

He brought the sword down.

"No!" The scream broke through the pounding rush of blood in his ears, Beren flung himself out of the path of the sword in the second that he checked. He snarled in fury, detachment cracking, everything in him screaming to _kill _but out of the corner of his eye he could see Lúthien raising a hand-

His knees buckled as a hand plunged into his gut without tearing the skin and clenched and it _hurt – _it _hurt – _couldn't hold in the howl of pain as the hand burrowed deeper and twisted, _no, no, no, _and there was a gleam of silver metal above his head…

…his own sword…the shade of his brother howling and clawing at his mind in frustrated fury, _no, no_…how could this, how could _he-_

"Stop – no, my love, I will not let you make yourself a murderer – not for him. Please."

He had never hated so much. Never even before when he had thought he could have been killed and the hatred would live on apart from him. No, he wanted to cry, don't take my dignity as well, no, but he could not make the words and the hand held him down like a leash.

"He will follow us. Like a plague. It is not the time for mercy-"

"It is always the time for mercy." Celegorm fought to uncurl and stand, but the pain was like a sharp kick to his stomach and he crumpled, hating his weakness, hating him, hating _her. _But he did not make a sound. _My brother, I am sorry, my brother- _the shade howled at him, furious, and he did not try to silence it. "No, my love…Celegorm, look at me."

Never, _never, _he swore, had he hated anyone so much as the both of them, as her for doing this to him, but he had not choice. He met her eyes, his own burning with a hatred so intense he half hoped it would consume him entire.

She sounded sad, and he hated her more for it – _do not pretend at mercy, _he longed to spit at her, but was too aware of the pain and his own cowardice. "Lúthien," he heard Beren say, low.

"I will leave you your sword and your life. But if I see your face again, or if you raise blade against me or my beloved again, then you will die. And that I swear, no matter the consequences."

His horse, his gear, everything. He understood and understood that she had handed him a death sentence that was only slow and long rather than clean. He could not go home to his brothers. He could not stay here indefinitely without food or shelter. Eventually, even if it took a long time, he would die.

And suddenly, he did not care. It was not that he wanted it, it was just so terribly unimportant, and somehow he'd never seen it before.

The voice of the shade dwindled to nothing, and he watched mutely as she took his horse and Beren claimed his reins. He stabbed the sword into the earth before he mounted up, looked back briefly, and shook his head, ever so slightly. _Do not tell me what I could have been, _he thought, angrily, and perhaps it showed in his eyes, for the man said nothing before riding away.

He watched them go, crawled to his sword to sheath it, and leaned back against one of the trees, suddenly exhausted and heartsick and just sick, still feeling like something was kneading and twisting his entrails. He swallowed the pain, tried to take it into himself, and clenched his jaw not to make a sound.

The copse seemed very still and dark, now, but he felt no fear. What was there to fear? His brother's ghost followed him and could not rest, would not rest because of his failure. There was no horror greater than that, not just now.

Tyelko knew he could not give up. Death or not, while he was still breathing he could still, should still, dog Beren's steps. His body ached, though, and he was too tired for now. He would not limp home to his brothers, though. He would not go home – if he still had one – until Beren was dead. Somehow. But now he was too tired to fight.

Not time to die, maybe. But time to rest for a while.

He closed his eyes and let Curufin's shade, silent now with mute reproach, settle over his head and suffocate him into sleep.


	9. The Speed of the Sound of Loneliness

_To the Lord of Thargelion: _

_ I have word that five of my best men lie dead. Should I find the one who killed them, my justice will be swift and unquestionable. Know this well. _

_ Elwë, King of Doriath, Lord in Menegroth_

Caranthir could hear his teeth grinding as he read the short letter for the third time. The meaning was unmistakable and he didn't miss it. The only thing to be grateful for was that it was short.

"It's nothing less than a threat. The fact that he sent it to you shows that much." The note of taut annoyance was easily audible to Caranthir in Pityo's voice if the hand gripping his shoulder too tightly didn't say enough.

"And I'm sure I can guess who towards. Yes, I thought as much. He suspects, or knows. He'll get no reply as confirmation from me." _Maitimo, move faster, won't you? _"There is nothing I hate more than feeling rushed."

"I know," said Pityo, simply, and the hand on his shoulder squeezed once before dropping. "Soon. Maybe."

"Can't be later," Caranthir muttered, and paced to the window. Stupid, it was all so damned _stupid. _This exile, Kurvo's death, Tyelko's headlong rush in what was rapidly looking tantamount to suicide –

All he could feel about his brother's death was a strange coldness and a sense of inevitability. It would come for them all, eventually – and if that was a fatalistic way of thinking, at least it was more realistic than optimism. _Damn you, Findarato. Couldn't you stay alive? _

"If you want to go," Pityo said, after a moment, "I can make the explanations. If you like."

"No," Caranthir said, still too quietly. "I have to wait. And especially now. After this Thingol will likely expect us to ride out with an army." His mouth thinned. "Idiocy. It's all – the Enemy to the north and he simply _lurks _in his fortress sending petty threats to _me? _If only we could wash our hands of him altogether, but he hasn't even the decency to stay _quiet, _simply crouching in the middle of the land like a frog hoarding his flies." His lips twisted, violently, the anger boiling up without needing to be called. "They are all – _all _– arrogant, near-sighted, ignorant filth."

Pityo did not disagree, but stayed silent as well, his expression nearly unreadable as he looked out the window. "It's been too quiet for too long," he said at last. "It makes me uneasy. And not just because of…this."

Caranthir felt a sudden thrill of – not fear, but anxiety, almost. _If there are any left to hear me, let the Enemy be blind to this. _It would be perfect, perfect, for him to strike south – at Nargothrond, perhaps, where Orodreth was still green. Or here, where an army burning the fields could set thousands to starving when winter came in a few months.

At least, it occurred to him somewhat grimly, his brother was only on the plains, not further north. If Morgoth had found him, it would have been – not the end, but Caranthir doubted that any bold and stupid cousins would be willing to risk their life to retrieve him, and then they would only be four.

Yes, at least there was that. Although it appeared if Thingol caught him the end result would be the same. Damn stupidity. Damn all this madness.

"If war comes, we'll be ready," he said, with more confidence than he felt. "If war comes, we will stand as we always have and never bend or break." Pityo's mouth thinned.

"We wouldn't do less, Moryo. But more than even – Orodreth will hardly fight with us now. Thingol already refuses, and more so now. No one has heard any word of Turgon's force. That leaves us, Maglor, and Maitimo. Alone."

Caranthir nearly turned on his younger brother and snarled. He bit it back with an effort. "So be it, then. We are strong enough for that. When have we not stood alone, when no one else would stand with us?"

"I suppose," said Pityo quietly, and he was troubled to look into his brother's eyes and see reflected there his own blank fatalism, simply a matter of time before waking up and knowing that _this is a good day to die. _He jerked his gaze away.

"I don't suppose, I know. We've survived this long, we'll survive longer. And soon enough Maitimo's letter will reach here, I can go and I'll be back within the week with our miscreant sibling."

"I hope so." Pityo did not smile, but Caranthir found his, rakish and broad.

"I know so. Is there anything that can stop me, little brother?" Pityo did not reply, and Caranthir understood, knowing that the reminder of what could was still far too close by. If they didn't have a sibling to bring back, or not a living one. If the enemy had already moved far enough south for there to be things on the plains that hunted elves. If war broke out in earnest again and he had no choice but to stay and lead those he was responsible for.

_Damn you, Findarato. If you could have just stayed alive…_

Too late for wishes, though. There were too few choices and too little time, and his first obligation would always be to his brothers. As long as they still lived.

_And if he doesn't_, he thought to wonder, _if Turco is killed before you reach him, will you take up his cause of vengeance, or simply carry him home to find whatever peace any of us ever can? _

He had no answer for himself, and Pityo was watching him with shadowed eyes. He turned his back. "Come," he said, slightly shortly. "We should go."

Questions were to be asked later. Not now. He didn't check to see if his brother was following, trusting that he would.

At the moment, it seemed all he could do.


	10. Never Coming Home

Under the eaves of the green-lit forest of Doriath, Galadriel sat a little ways away and listened to the angry squabbles of Thingol with his guards. It was as slight as anything, but nonetheless there was a darkness to this place, even here where there had been none. She could trace it from the bodies brought back in deathly silence a few days ago.

It had been easy to hear how they were killed, and she could not have missed the speculation about who. That was not the most interesting. That, combined with the word of the youth she had stitched with that hateful mark on his chest, set her suspicions to burning. Findarato not long dead – that thought still sent an arrow through her heart – and yet it seemed that he was the beginning, not the end, of a trail of blood.

If she could have reached out and – no, better to think, _if she could have reached out and plucked him from danger, _fruitless anger and bitter need for vengeance would get her nowhere but downwards. All the same, with the word traveling like fire, she could not help but think that if she had the chance-

_Take this hatred from me. It does nothing. It heals nothing. And that is what I have sworn to do. _Bowing her head further, she nonetheless could not help but overhear the pieces of conversation from those passing:

"Here? –be shot down from miles away…"

"Five, _five _strong warriors and not a mark – how do I know? Everyone knows…"

But mostly, she heard "madness" and "Beren," the latter spoken almost with awe.

If Tyelkormo lived to come here, what would she do? Simply bar the way? Let her presence be a silent accusation?

Pay him back in kind for every moment of her brother's suffering?

She took a deep breath to keep herself from crying again. Findarato would have advised her, but it was because of him that she didn't know what to do. More unsettling were the other alternatives that occurred to her when she allowed herself, reluctantly, to examine them. Madness, they said, and it struck her that it might not be far off the mark.

No excuse, though. There was no excuse and never could be one for what he and his brother had done.

Thingol and his men continued to argue, loudly and stridently. "If you push too far-"

"I will not do otherwise until my daughter is found."

"And risk warfare with Thargelion, and its host – not inconsiderable in size-"

"They will not dare," Thingol declared, and she raised her voice, very slightly.

"Would you have said that anyone would dare to kill a party of guards nearly at your very borders, with no attempt to hide it?" Lowering her head, she said nothing more, but the sudden silence was enough for her to know she had been heard.

Caranthir would not hesitate to declare war, especially if Thingol had ignored his wife's advice and sent him that short but quite expressive letter. If she knew one thing, it was that they needed no more bloodshed between themselves, not with this growing darkness and sense of foreboding.

If she didn't almost fear to see, Galadriel would have looked in the waters, but she held back for now, unwilling to see what she thought she might. And if Celegorm continued to come south – if Celegorm came here, what would she do? Perhaps that, she should consider, first…

"You are quiet." Melian's voice, low and smooth, surprised her. The Maia was quiet enough that even she rarely heard her approach, especially when lost in thought. "Something troubles your thoughts?"

If she said she did not wish to speak of it, Melian would listen. She shook her head, slightly. "I am – uneasy."

"About this situation with your cousin?"

_Don't call him that. It reminds me of better times. _She kept her face still. "Yes, and about my – sense of the world. Something is not…right."

"Morgoth has always loved chaos and conflict. The worse this gets, the more he will enjoy our divisions. And if they run deep enough, they are easily taken advantage of." Galadriel frowned, wondering if that was a warning.

"And what can any of us do now?"

Melian shrugged, gracefully. "I do not know." She paused. "If things go ill and your cousin somehow comes to this place, even through the protections placed upon it…"

She stiffened. "I will never stand in the way of your justice, my friend. And especially not for him." Melian tilted her head, looking almost thoughtful.

"You are angry, and confused."

"I am," she allowed, though closing in on herself, just the slightest bit. _Do not make me discuss this, and do not ask me to. My feelings are too tangled up in with it. I cannot. _"Do you worry for your daughter?"

Melian smiled, very softly. "No, I do not. She has made her choice. But I will wait for Thingol to come to understand, as long as my daughter remains unharmed. And I think she will; or at least, not the kind of hurt that lasts."

Not the kind that lasts. Like grief that feels like it will eat your soul and leave only bitter husks? Galadriel bent her head over her book and did not say that she envied her. Not her beauty, no, only her fortune, never to have lost anyone she loved.

"Do you have murder in your heart, my friend?" The question was not accusatory, but she heard it so nonetheless and bowed her head. _Always. _

"Have you never wished to go back and undo something before it was done? To take the chance and kill a murderer before he even knows he will be one?"

"I have wished, yes."

"And what do you do when you wish?"

"I sit alone and weep until the feeling is gone from me." Her cool hand brushed Galadriel's face. "I know you are young. But you know what it would mean for you to raise your hand in violence to another, use your power for evil. To lose everything you have worked for thus far. And I do not think, in truth, that you are a warrior."

"If I ever was," she said, softly, "I do not think I could be now." Let me heal. Perhaps if I heal often enough the Valar will forgive me. Perhaps if I give back enough the Valar will give my brother back. She knew it was nonsense, but it lingered nonetheless, refusing to fade, simply latent until something reminded her again.

And there it was again – _your brother's murderer is close by. Your cousin is close by. _Somehow she could not quite make the two the same. It was a blessing that at least the first was louder.

She stood, quietly. "I must go," she told Melian, "I need time, I think."

"I understand." Her friend inclined her head, and Galadriel returned the gesture, listening with one ear to the argument nearby.

"It is folly-"

"It is defensible. Menegroth will never fall. My love has made it so." For a moment, Galadriel saw Melian's expression spasm with sorrow, but then it was gone, and she was turning away.

She hid her face only just before the weeping started, and among the green and quiet trees the leaves swallowed her sounds, gathered close and offered sympathy. _Let me grieve, _she thought, almost bitterly, _let me grieve forever, and not have to face these things. _

And all the time, she knew, the darkness was creeping closer, the already taut lines between peoples of this place were stretched even tighter, and the wrong knife in the wrong place, or the wrong word in the wrong place, could send all of this toppling into darkness. She could counsel calm. She could counsel withdrawal or at least speak to Melian to ask her to do the same.

But Galadriel could not, and knew she never would; could not ask anyone to stay their hand, even if she herself could not lash out. If it had been her choice, no matter the consequences, she was not sure she could have chosen mercy.

She was glad, in truth, that the choice was not hers.


	11. Cold and Hungry Hours

It felt as though he were walking through water, _muddy _water, filling his nostrils, weighting him down, fighting his every step. But there was nothing visible here, only a solitary grey and crumbling tree swaying in the desolation. But once it would have shone nearly bright enough to blind.

Something croaked under his feet and he looked down at the ground. It had become marshy, and there were faces, soft, white, drowned _faces _in the water, and he cried out in horrified disgust. Their mouths moved as though they spoke to him, the currents of the water tugging gently, gently, at wisps of their hair, their eyes glassy and bled of all their color…

Stumbling back, he fell, expecting to touch corpse flesh and only found red, red, red sucking him down. Every time he fought he only sank more into the mire of blood, and where had it all come from? There could not be so much in all the world. Not even in all the elves that he had killed. Help me, he wanted to cry, but when he opened his mouth blood poured from his throat, a red torrent choking him and never ending, even when it seemed that his body should be empty…

A hand gripped his shoulder with bruising strength and as suddenly as it had come the blood was gone, and he let himself go limp as a kitten to be pulled to his feet.

_Hello, brother. _

Tyelko's belly clenched and he turned his head in horror as the too strong hands let him go. He did not want to, didn't want to know what he might see, but he couldn't stop.

Curufin grinned at him, his teeth affixed in a death's head grimace, eye sockets empty, still wearing the tattered clothes he'd been buried in. As he moved, bone showed as skin sloughed off in ragged tatters. He recoiled in disgust.

_Have you forgotten me?_

Blood began to ooze down his chest from the fatal wound in a slow black flow. "No," Tyelko said, or tried to say. "No, you cannot still bleed," and would have reached out and stopped it with his hands, but something did not allow him to move.

_Every day I lie unavenged I die anew. I feel the pain of death again, again, a-_

"Stop, no," Tyelko felt his shoulders bend. "I lost. I _lost. _What would you have me do?"

Silence, and nothingness. His brother's ghost was gone, the cold wind of empty space blew through him.

He dreamed.

**

Huan licked his face, several times, his eyes large and hopeful. He wanted to go, wanted to move. Why weren't they moving? He could feel the energy flowing through his veins, and yet here he was, lying on his back, not moving, staring at the clouds as they went by…

And if he didn't get up**,** Huan would leave without him, and how would he ever find _him_ then? He remembered, sometimes, that Huan was a friend more than a pet.

And if Huan left everything would be ruined, ruined awfully, and he just couldn't – couldn't –

The voices cut into his dreams and he fought to ignore them even as the grass melted away around him and it blurred into something else…

"What do you mean? It's not-"

"You idiot! What were you thinking?"

He ran on four legs, each stride carrying him closer to fleeing prey. It stumbled and his muscles bunched to pounce, but something slammed into him from the side and he fell hard on his back, borne down by a snarling beast of teeth and hair, like but not like. Though he thrashed to get free and clawed at the earth, his enemy was too strong and his throat came away in the dog's teeth and-

"You ought to have killed it, boy. Were you thinking at all? Think of the danger to us, to all of us, how often have I warned you what could happen, and what were you doing so far out anyway, you were to be _hunting_-"

"I'm sorry – I thought-"

"You thought wrong," snapped his father – that was his father, wasn't it? But his father had died…they'd all died…

The sun nearly blinded him, but he laughed as he ran, the dog bounding at his side, and he could have run forever. Again, gentle, strong hands delivered a small puppy into his arms, and his mouth opened with awe and he felt the first fumbling steps of connection**. **The fires lit up the sky and he watched them, feeling more alive than he ever had, and Huan whined with concern and licked his face.

"Too late now. I don't care where you put it as long as it's out of sight. We can hope that it dies."

"Yes, father."

"Don't think I am done with _you, _boy. Your folly has put us in this mess. I won't forget it."

"Yes, father."

The sun was setting and he fell to the ground, laughing so hard his chest ached, Huan galloping in circles, and he thought he would never go home. To stay here forever was the best fate that he could hope for, in all the ages that would come and go.

He dreamed.

**

"Love, wake up."

She touched his face, her fingers sliding down along his jaw, light and cool, but he kept his eyes closed. She traced his eyes, his nose, his lips, and then kissed him, softly, and he opened his eyes then, and smiled.

The sun fell across the bed, and birds were singing in the window. She leaned her elbows on his chest and kissed his lips again, and he could just feel the slight swell of her pregnancy beginning to show. He ran his fingers into her hair, sleek and dark and warm from the touch of the sun. There was a new weight on his hand, a ring, its twin on her hand where it lay on his bare chest, stroking almost absently.

"You're beautiful," he told her, blurrily, and she laughed quietly and kissed him more in earnest this time, her body pressed against him solid and real and better than anything he'd ever dreamed of –

Dreamed of?

_Have you forgotten me? _

The sun faded. Her hands were still cool on his face, but she looked frightened, frozen, and he knew he was losing ground and could only think _why now, why now, after so long, _before his mind was mercifully blank.


	12. Transitions

The wind in his face was brisk, cold, and refreshing. It was a relief, powerful and cleansing, to be here where he belonged; horse between his knees and the wind through his hair.

_Carnistir – I have just received your letter. I pray this reaches you quickly. _

His mare seemed delighted at the release as well, tossing her head. He snapped the reins against her neck, but wanted to whoop himself, no matter how inappropriate it would be.

_Things are dark here, or I would ride myself. As it is, in conjunction with some other news, your words worry me. _

They covered ground swiftly together, as one. Thargelion rolled away beneath her hooves. It was strange, perhaps, especially as the harvest season would soon end, but it was good to see that things still lived.

_If you think there is any chance you can find them, I ask you to ride, but ride quickly, and be careful. I fear that there may be trouble soon. Be ready. – Maitimo. _

He'd taken the time, upon receiving the letter, to talk to Pityo and to groom and saddle his horse. After that, he rode. It was partly Maitimo's urgency that lit the fire under Caranthir, and more than that the mention of _them _rather than _him_, a reminder of how quickly things could change. His brother watched the northern marches, and therefore was the first to see signs of the Enemy stirring. If he thought there would be trouble, he was probably right. And the fact was that there would be no time in the midst of a battle to care for, or even to watch, a sibling madder than sane.

And what if he was riding after a dead man? Chasing nothing more than a corpse; what then?

He brushed the thoughts off. Celegorm had survived so far, and if he was so determined, would survive for some time yet. If he moved quickly, which of course he would, there was no reason why there should not be time to catch him before the damage was irrevocable. His uneasiness was just that – uneasiness, and nothing more.

He blinked and focused again to see what had once been a fire-pit. Bringing his mare in sharply, he leaped to the ground and padded over to crouch beside it.

The coals were dead, a few days old, and it had been a small fire – for one or two travelers, perhaps. He might not be quite the tracker Tyelko was – why did he have to wince every time he thought about his elder brother? – but he was good enough to find the faint and confused prints of two horses, coming from the south.

He lifted his head and looked out into the hazy horizon. North. It would be absurd to assume, but all the same…

Doriath was to the south. Curufin's grave was to the southeast. He would have to choose one track to follow – if he took this one, he might find Tyelko and might only find scouts less than pleased to find any Noldor. But no one would be at the grave yet, and likely the sign there would be faded and nearly vanished.

He knew which way he was going, though. For all he trusted his scouts, for all he knew that they had told the truth, there was a large part of himthat would not believe Curufin was dead until he saw his grave.

Caranthir kicked dirt over the remains of the fire and whistled for his mare.

It wasn't clear, even to himself, whether he needed to see the cairn to know that his brother was dead so he could grieve, or needed to see the cairn to know that his brother was dead and would never be coming back.

He shook that thought off, disliking that it existed at all.


	13. Do Not Think That No One Knows

The world came back slowly, in blinks and blurs and shivers. Tyelko's limbs felt too heavy and he ached with something like fever in his bones. He dragged his eyes open slowly and saw nothing.

Panic surged in his belly, hot and sick. Had he gone blind? But no, he could still make out – something, walls, a slim crack of light. Nothing more. It was only dark, awfully dark, and he didn't understand.

He uncurled his clenched fists and laid them against the floor. It felt wet, or damp, at least, and his back felt damp as well, though perhaps, with the heat and ache he could feel sapping his strength to move, it was only sweat.

Tyelko let his head fall back against the wall, confused, failing to understand anything. Was this Mandos? Then why did he still hurt? And where, other than Mandos, would he be? Any Sindar of Doriath would have killed him on sight, likely,_ so helpless, therefore a prison did not seem likely. _Where, where, where…his head spun in dizzy, blurry circles, and he could not think of anything.

He closed his eyes again and wondered if this was just another dream. The door opened with a quiet creak and he could hear footsteps, and did not open his eyes, fearing what he might see. His brother, rotting away. The shade was silent, but he knew it was only with cold and terrible disapproval.

Something dropped heavily to the floor and he fought to lift his head, muscles already cramped and still bleary with this strange sickness. Nonetheless, Celegorm dragged his eyes open slowly and tried to understand what he was seeing, feeling the touch of cool and light fingertips on his cheek.

Grey eyes blinked at him, grey eyes that somehow stung him as nothing should have, and even if it was nothing but a fever dream, maybe that was enough.

He never meant the name to escape his lips.

"Irissë?"

His voice sounded strange and hollow, unfamiliar in his own ears. She froze, and he was horrified to see the terror in her eyes. "You're not here," she said, softly, nothing more than a whisper. "It is only…"But she did not seem able to tell what it was only. He wanted to touch her, but he felt too tired, too heavy, for even that much movement.

"Irissë," he said, and she shook her head, pulling away sharply, glancing over her shoulder.

"You should not be here," she said, sounding more confused than alarmed, now. "I don't know why…"

"Here? Where?"

"I can't – Tyelko, Eru, what has been done to you…"

He could say nothing. There was nothing at all to say; all the words had suddenly melted and gone, and he was left with a mouth full of tar, chest aching suddenly and violently with each deep breath. It struck suddenly, and he bit his tongue not to scream but could not keep his body from arching, face contorting in pain.

This was not dying. This hurt too much to be dying.

"Tyelko," he heard her say, and thought she reached to touch his hand, but the blaze of light blinded him and she fell back.

"Mother, stay back, stay away-**"** An unfamiliar voice, and as the pain was receding he fought for breath so he could clear his eyes and see. Harsh, sharp, but with the undertones of a voice he did know – _mother, _he called her. _Mother. _There was something there, but he couldn't say what it was.

Tyelko blinked and someone swam into focus between them, his face fierce and stubborn and firmly planted between Irissë and himself. "It's dangerous," he was saying, in Sindarin, gaze venomous. "You shouldn't be down here. Father said…"

Celegorm licked his lips to moisten them. "Ireth…I thought you were dead."

"Be silent," hissed the stranger – Tyelko was unwilling to believe that he could be Irissë's son. It was unthinkable. Ireth's face, however, took on a stubborn and slightly exasperated cast that he knew very well, and it was a relief to see.

"Lómion, you know that I can protect myself, and I see no harm in-"

The boy, Lómion – _son of twilight, _but of course not hers, drew himself up. "If you don't come upstairs with me," he said, in a low voice, "I _will _tell him." That meant nothing to Tyelko, but he kept his mouth shut and watched Irissë's mouth thin.

She turned to look at him again and he could have imagined that his breath stuck in his throat – but that meant nothing, now. "At least tell me why you are here at all," she said, softly, but made no move toward him. Lómion's eyes were cold and angry, and he was nearly reminded of the promise he had made.

"He'll be home soon," the boy said more quietly. "Come with me." Aredhel glanced over her shoulder at him, but turned and was gone. She mouthed something, but he was too weary and damned weak to tell what it was.

The light went out and he was alone in the dark.

_Never rest, never stop, _murmured the voice of the shade, and he turned his head away from it. _You promised._

Whatever that woman – he did not want to name her, as if it would make it worse – as if anything _could _get worse, he caught himself thinking, grimly – had done to him, this was her fault. This helpless weakness, such as he had never felt, the aching exhaustion that extended down to his bones…

_You promised. _

"Leave me alone," he snapped. "I can do nothing. I never could do anything."

The emptiness came roaring up again and clamped its jaws around him, and Tyelko sank again into dizzy dreams of dying and rising again, of screaming and trying to reach Beren while holding his body together. He looked up at a black, sheer cliff and could see a body hanging from one arm, limp as a corpse, but surely someone else would take care of it.

It wasn't his responsibility anymore.

After that, he remembered nothing.


End file.
